Wouldn’t Change a Thing

by Stacy Campbell

  I told her I would do no such thing. I knew what I was talking about and she didn’t have a right to judge me. I shouted at her and told her just because she played concert halls and sang to large crowds didn’t mean she knew about motherhood. Our argument was so bad Annalease stepped in to keep me from fighting with ’Halia. That’s when they say I hit Annalease and knocked her unconscious. Now, she’s been moved to another room. Nurse Whipple said she wanted to be by herself. I don’t believe her because Annalease is like my third daughter. She hasn’t been in the dining room for a few days and I wonder where she is.

  Everybody is being taken away from me. I can’t even get up to look out the window ’cause I’m woozy. I try to turn sideways and almost succeed before Nurse Whipple’s chipper ass comes through the door carrying a tray of food and something to drink. It is humanly impossible for a person to be that happy all the time. She’s got another thing coming if she thinks I’m eating today. She’s all smiles, as happy as the smiley face scrubs she’s wearing. The words Put on a happy face surround the smiles.

  “Good afternoon, Greta.” She says it like she’s singing a show tune.

  “What’s so good about it?”

  “You’re alive and well! I can’t think of anything better than that, Greta.” She grins and I notice a plastic medicine cup on the food tray. I’m not eating the food, and I’m not taking those pills. If she tries to force them on me, I’ll bite her.

  “I brought pimento cheese sandwiches and sweet tea.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You haven’t eaten in days. Daniel told me you attacked him when he brought food on Sunday.”

  “I don’t like him.”

  “He was doing his job. We’re all concerned about you. I bet if you take your medication you’ll feel so much better.”

  “I don’t like taking meds.”

  “The sooner you eat and take your meds, the sooner you’ll feel better. You’ll be able to leave this room.”

  “Has my daughter come to see me yet?”

  Nurse Whipple’s smile glows brighter. “Not yet, but I believe she’ll come to see you soon.”

  “You don’t think she’s mad at me?”

  “Why would she be?”

  “She hasn’t been here and I want to know she’s okay.”

  Nurse Whipple bends next to my chair. “I don’t know about your daughter, but I promise Mahalia will come to see you if you eat.”

  “You know about ’Halia?”

  “Yes. She said she can’t come back around if your tummy’s empty. She has to be able to have a conversation with you. Laugh and talk. How’s she supposed to do that if you won’t eat? She told me herself.”

  “Did she?” Whipple nods. “Did she say anything else?”

  “She said you always eat pimento cheese sandwiches with her and she wants you to have one today.”

  ’Halia knows me and what I like to eat. Whipple wouldn’t know that unless ’Halia told her.

  “If I guarantee Mahalia will visit, do you promise to eat?”

  I nod.

  She places the tray on the table near my bed. “May I eat my sandwiches first, then take my medicine?”

  “Absolutely. You need something on your stomach before you take your pills anyway.”

  “Do you want one of my sandwiches?”

  “Do I look like I need to eat another morsel?”

  “No, you don’t. But being big-boned suits you, Nurse Whipple. You have a nice size.”

  The sandwiches smell so good I wish she’d brought me three. I swig the sweet tea and take a bite of a sandwich. I wolf the first one down in less than two minutes. Either I’m hungry or this is the best food I’ve had in a while. Nurse Whipple passes me a few napkins and I wipe my mouth. I look around the room, hoping ’Halia is pleased enough to come sit with me. I’m so excited I wear myself out. I lean back in the chair and take my time with the second sandwich. The slower I chew, the dizzier I feel.

  Restless days catch up to me when I’m tired. Nurse Whipple asks me to stand. She takes off my shoes and helps me into bed. She doesn’t harass me about taking the meds as she takes the tray. I get comfortable in my fetal crook, turning my back to the door so ’Halia can tap my shoulder when she comes in. ’Halia can’t see me with my back turned, so I face the door again. If I’m facing forward, she can come in and sing me a tune. Through a fog, I see Nurse Whipple backing out the door and smiling at me.

  Chapter 12

  “The nurse said the liquid Depakote worked,” Uncle Raymond tells Aunt Mavis. “They put it in her sweet tea since she wouldn’t take the pills.”

  She tilts her head back on the sunroom sofa and drinks another Bloody Mary. A phone call on the way home from IGA interrupted our inevitable Come-to-Jesus about Shirley’s accusations. Before I could ask about the Sparta Secret Keeper label, a nurse asked Aunt Mavis’s permission to put medicine in Mama’s food. I had no idea she had an impact on her care or medication. I’m filled with more questions now and watch as Uncle Raymond sits next to her. He rubs her hands and shoulders. I scan the front lawn and watch as Whiplash drinks water from her bowl and chases butterflies.

  “May, do you think it will be a good idea to bring her home again?”

  “Not until our next meeting. I’m a bit more comfortable with the Depakote. I was worried about the long-term effect the Chlozaril might be having. That was constant bloodwork monitoring. I hated suggesting putting liquid in her tea, but after she attacked her roommate, I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “She attacked her roommate?” I ask.

  Uncle Raymond says, “Her hallucinations are growing wilder and she is angry the gospel singer, Mahalia Jackson, isn’t coming to see her.”

  “Mahalia Jackson? She’s been dead for years.”

  “Jesus has been dead longer, but she thinks He visits her, too,” Aunt Mavis adds.

  “What else does she do?”

  They look at each other and Uncle Raymond takes the lead. “Since your mother has been away, we’ve made the effort not to abandon her. We used to pick her up twice a month, then the visits dwindled to holidays because of her erratic behavior.”

  Aunt Mavis chimes in and finishes his recitation as she always does. “We are well connected with the Georgia Mental staff. A few of them were my coworkers from my days at Oconee Regional. I made an unofficial pact with them to keep me posted on her care.”

  He places his fingers on Aunt Mavis’s lips and redirects his focus to me. “Toni, I understand your anger about what we did, but you and your sister were in no position to help your mother.”

  “What about now?”

  Aunt Mavis changes her position on the sofa. “What do you mean, now?”

  I’m back at the mall again when I was a little girl. Why didn’t my guardian angel let me ride to the hospital? Why didn’t I help Daddy when she wouldn’t take her medication? Shirley is right; I should be ashamed to show my face in this town. But I’m here now.

  “Why can’t I care for her now? Let’s face it, my contracts are drier than the Mojave and Giovanna is locked into her lease for a year. I can stay here and watch her. I have enough money saved to take a hiatus.” A bell dings in my head. “I can even renovate the home house. I overheard Clay say the house was still in the family.”

  Uncle Raymond and Aunt Mavis face each other. Her eyes ask for his consent before she speaks. “It is. Your father thought it best to keep the house in the family. It was paid for, but he feared your mother would destroy it.”

  “So the two of you took that away from her like everything else?”

  “We didn’t take it away.”

  “May I go in and clean it so I’ll have a place to take care of her?”

  “You can’t, Toni.”

  “Everything about this family comes with secrets and strings. Why can’t I go in?”

  “Your father’s stipulation was that nothing be done to the house without you and Willa agreeing to changes. You can’t replace
a thing without her consent.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  Aunt Mavis exits the sunroom and Uncle Raymond grows antsier. She returns with an accordion file and places it on the coffee table. She rifles through several slots and produces a document that she slides to me. I look at the paperwork, anger filling me as I read. In 1989, these heathens, these relatives of mine, drew up a document giving Aunt Mavis the deed to the house. Our names are listed as well. My dad made sure to include verbiage tying me to Willa and forever locking us together as sisters in disgrace. I toss the document back to her and stand. I have to leave before I lose my cool and say something I can’t take back.

  Uncle Raymond stands as well. “Don’t leave. I think this is a good thing. This is a chance to reconnect with your sister. She’d be more than understanding about the matter.”

  “I agree,” Aunt Mavis says.

  “We haven’t spoken in over twenty years. She doesn’t want to have anything to do with me!”

  “Times change. People change. The least you can do is reach out to her.”

  “And say what? Hi, Sis, I haven’t seen you since Moby Dick was a calf, but may I have your permission to go inside our old house, please and thank you very much!” The words tumble out quickly and without pause. I take a deep breath and steady myself.

  Uncle Raymond takes me by the hand, motions for me to sit again. He rubs my back, his favorite gesture from my childhood when I had a toothache or ate too much candy or Girl Scout cookies during movie night.

  “Your sister and her husband, Donald, stopped to see us last year on their way to Orlando. They were headed to their vacation and rewarding McKenna for her school achievements.”

  “McKenna?”

  “Your niece.” He continues. “She told us she’d been trying to reach you for years, but you returned her letters unopened. She said whenever she called Clayton’s, you were either busy or asleep. She stopped trying over the years because she thought you didn’t trust her.”

  “It’s not that, Uncle Ray.”

  “What is it?”

  Words are playing hide-and-seek in my throat. “May I please get some fresh air? I’m taking a drive to clear my head.”

  He hesitated and sighed. “Be careful.”

  I grab my keys and head out front. Whiplash notices and races alongside me, lapping at my legs.

  “I’ll be back soon, girl.”

  She barks and follows me to the car. I unlock my phone and see several text messages from my friend, Jordan. She’s left two voicemails as well. I scroll through my contacts to find Willa’s number. Russ added her number to my contacts in the basement studio after wine and cheese one night. He made me promise to reach out to her and insisted that she spoke with him and Clay often about us seeing each other again. Whiplash is insistent on taking a ride with me, but luckily, Aunt Mavis rescues me and takes her back inside. I leave their yard, emotions swirling, hands trembling. I miss creating projects and going to work every day. I don’t know what to do with myself, but something inside tells me this is what I need.

  I drive in silence and head to my childhood home. Downtown Sparta greets me again as I think of Willa. Like a snake charmer’s victim, I’m lulled into a parking space in front of Webster’s Pharmacy. When Daddy first taught her to drive, he coaxed her to pick up Mama’s medication at Webster’s. We’d run to the back of the store for ice cream first. Butter pecan for me, chocolate for Willa. The wonderful woman who waited on us must have known about our troubles and about Mama’s penchant for swallowing M&M’s whole. One day, when Willa picked up Mama’s Thorazine, the ice cream lady suggested we mix one or two of her pills with the M&M’s. That way, she’d have a sweet treat and get well at the same time. To demonstrate, she waited for Willa to bring the meds to the back of the store, gave us a Ziploc bag of M&M’s, and mixed the meds in. The orange-brown pills passed for M&M’s with flying colors. Mama never knew the difference.

  I press Willa’s number, sit back, and practice what I’ll say. I wait for her to answer. It goes straight to voicemail and I hang up. I try again, and after four rings, I hear my sister’s voice on her message and tear up. It has the same, authoritative sound as I remember, but softer. Maybe marriage and motherhood changed it. When she says, “Please leave a message after the tone,” I pause and say, “Willa, this is Toni. I’m staying at May and Ray’s for a while. Please call me when you get this message.”

  I press “end” and exit the car in search of our ice cream lady. I don’t remember her name, but I feel compelled to thank her for looking out for us. As I enter the store, I place my phone in my pocket and feel the slip of paper from the woman at IGA. I look at her number and wonder if she has the answers to the secrets.

  Chapter 13

  Three weeks have passed since I received the phone number. I stare at it and contemplate calling her. I haven’t told Aunt Mavis about the exchange because it will increase her angst. After the showdown at IGA, she’s been reserved and going overboard with canning. She tells me and Uncle Ray it’s for the Pine Tree Festival booth, but I catch her deep in thought as she stirs tomatoes and peaches on the stove. Ball jars line the counter and the whole house smells like a farmer’s market or a vegetarian restaurant. Stacked high in the corner are more Ball jars.

  “Set that box of lids on the counter for me,” she says.

  I set the box of wide-mouth lids next to the lined jars. “Do you need my help with anything else?”

  “I’m okay for now. Ray took Whiplash to be groomed, so I have the kitchen to myself.” Aunt Mavis turns from the simmering pot. “We need to discuss putting you on the visitation list to see your mother.”

  We sit at the table. She rifles through a manila folder and I glimpse the lengthy writing of the blinding white paper she holds. The GMH letterhead, courtesy of the fluorescent bulbs in the chandelier dangling overhead, stands out prominently.

  “Here is next month’s treatment team meeting notice.”

  “What exactly is the meeting about?”

  “Once a month, Ray and I drive over to meet with your mother’s social worker, dietitian, doctor, and nurses to discuss her care and treatments. Even if we don’t attend, we receive a notice regarding her progress and her needs.”

  “Will she be there?”

  “Of course. She’s a part of getting better. She’s been complaining about her meds lately.”

  “Thorazine?”

  She shakes her head vigorously. “That drug is yesterday. Feels like last century even. Since you and Willa went back and forth to Webster’s for your mother, lots of drugs have been created to help schizophrenia. She responds best to Zyprexa, but when she’s out of control, she’s given meds to help her sleep. Many of the antipsychotic drugs you all knew aren’t prescribed anymore.”

  Her medication was like another child. A plastic Piggly Wiggly bag housed the pills she hid underneath their bedroom armoire. We hid in her closet and peeked through the door slots as Daddy tapped his watch. She held up four fingers indicating the last medication time was four o’clock. He believed her lies at first and always changed into the outfits she’d splayed on the bed for him. Willa and I waited until he took her out for dinner or a walk and slithered underneath the armoire, sidestepping the mouse-trap she placed near the bag, and swiped it. Willa emptied the bottles on the floor and we picked them up, tossing them like circus jugglers. We flipped them up and down and the rattling of Thorazine, Triafon, and Moban made music. The bottles tumbled, and as they fell, we took turns having random bursts of conversation. We moved from subject to subject just like Mama.

  “How do I help her with the meds and her other needs?”

  “Slow down, Mustang Sally! You can’t rush into things. Let’s start with regular visitation. You can see your mother seven days a week up until nine at night. That’s why I need to get you on the list. She can’t come down to the visitation room to sit with you if you’re not listed.”

  “Does she ever leave the facility? O
ther than coming to stay with you and Uncle Ray?”

  “The facility has lots of community outings. They go to restaurants, shop, and play bingo. Staff monitors them closely, and we make sure she has adequate clothing and money to go on trips.”

  “Why do you help take care of her and Daddy has nothing to do with us?”

  “I love your mother. I never referred to her as a sister-in-law; she was my sister-in-love. Paul couldn’t handle the situation. Especially after her health deteriorated.”

  “But he still has two children.” I wait a few seconds and ask, “When was the last time you heard from him?”

  “Two months ago.”

  My heart palpitates. Ever since he left, I sought acceptance from men because he denied us. Daddy sent me a check for $15,000 for my high school graduation and a lovely card. No return address and a New York postmark. Checks followed for my college and grad school ceremonies. When I pressed Clay about the matter, he finally said Daddy wanted to love us from afar.

  “What did he say?”

  “His usual checking-in call.”

  “Did he ever remarry?”

  “He said he never will. Doesn’t want more children either.”

  In a recurring dream, Daddy stands on the side of the shore with a massive bouquet of yellow roses for Willa and me. Handsome as ever and dressed to the nines, he opens his arms and waits for us to run to him. The three of us stand there. We take in his fragrant cologne and tickle the cherry-shaped birthmark on his neck, a distinctive beauty spot that pales in comparison to his milky dark skin. He holds the flowers overhead as Willa and I jump to reach them, never matching his lofty height. We walk hand-in-hand to his car, and he takes us to a new home where he treats us like princesses.

  “I find that hard to believe. Women were always throwing themselves at him.”

  “Yes, they certainly did.” She laughs. “My brother could have been a serious ladies man, but he only had eyes for your mother.”